


In Bocca Al Lupo

by hart_and_sole



Series: Roaring in my Heart [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:24:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hart_and_sole/pseuds/hart_and_sole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Getting Scott out was the easy part. Now they have a severely traumatized, half-feral werewolf on their hands, and they're all in over their heads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Bocca Al Lupo

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for possibly upsetting scenes of ill-advised, forced psychotherapy techniques and mentions of past torture.   
> Last in the series for now. Title is a little more literal than the Italian idiom.

  
Jackson woke with a curse when a sharp elbow jammed into his side. He grumbled to himself, just awake enough to inch his way out of Scott’s unconscious, flailing reach. He put his feet on the floor, rubbing at his eyes, struggling his way back to alertness. He sighed. He knew a full night’s sleep was too good to be true.  
  
After he got his bearings, he turned back to the bed. He watched Scott toss and turn in the blankets, struggling with some unseen attacker, moaning low in the back of his throat. He wished there was some way he could help. As it was, all he could do was reach out with one tentative hand and try to gently shake Scott awake. He didn’t always take too well to the attempt, but it was better than sitting by and watching him go through it all again in his sleep.   
  
“Scott,” he said, voice soft and soothing. “Come on, wake up. It’s just a nightmare…”  
  
Scott gave one wrenching moan as he woke, wide eyed and panting. His eyes shone in the dim, early morning light as they passed over the room, reassuring himself that he was safe. That he wasn’t back in that room again.   
  
He was shaking in reaction, but he was present. He wasn’t seeing things that weren’t there. Jackson let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and carefully let his hand come to rest on Scott’s shoulder. When he didn’t flinch away or strike out, Jackson felt safe enough in letting his hand drift to Scott’s back, rubbing soothing circles into his skin. “You okay?” he said, though he knew what the answer would be before he asked.   
  
“I’m fine.”   
  
Jackson looked at his mate, brow raised doubtfully. He was sweating, his whole body quivering, but he was ‘fine.’ Sure. Jackson put his arms around Scott from behind and leaned his chin on his shoulder, sighing. He kissed Scott’s neck, relieved beyond measure when it raised the faintest little snorting laugh. “Tickles,” Scott said.   
  
A couple of months ago, that kind of admission would have resulted in a full on tickle war, but right now there was the distinct possibility that that might result in either a) Jackson being flung unthinkingly half way across the room, or b) his boyfriend being flung back into some kind of unfathomably horrific memory. Neither was all that appealing, so Jackson just pulled Scott that little bit tighter, aching at the loss. They’d stolen so much from him. Light heartedness ought to be the least of it, but it didn’t make it hurt less.   
  
“What time is it?” Scott murmured, pulling one of Jackson’s hands to rest above his heart. Jackson could feel the steady thump of it under his fingers. It was somehow reassuring.   
  
Jackson turned his head to look at the bedside clock. “Huh. Nearly eight a.m. Guess we did make it a full night.”  
  
Scott snorted. “One night’s sleep,” he said, voice brimming with derision that was aimed inwardly. “Gee, at this rate maybe I’ll be ready to go back into regular human society some time this decade.”  
  
“Don’t do that,” Jackson said gently.   
  
“Don’t what? Tell it like it is?”  
  
“Don’t put yourself down like that,” Jackson said. “You’ll get better. You will.”  
  
“When?” Scott demanded, fraught. He got up from the bed, running one hand through his greasy hair. “Could you tell me that? Because I’m sick of living like this, Jackson.”  
  
He sounded worn and desperately sad, like he was at the very end of his tether, and it tore at something deep down in Jackson’s belly, knowing there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to help. “There’s no kind of set timetable for healing, baby -”  
  
“Don’t ‘baby’ me. You know I hate it,” Scott snapped, but his eyes were suspiciously shiny as he slid down the door to sit, banging his head back, hard enough that Jackson winced in reaction. Even now he wouldn’t let himself cry. His voice was a tremulous, tiny thing when he spoke again, so soft Jackson strained to hear it. “I can’t eat a meal without growling at you all like some dumb fucking dog. I can’t let my own mom come within a fucking foot of me. I can’t take a god damn bath. Jesus Christ, I can’t even get my stupid eyes to change back…”  
  
He guarded his food because he’d barely been fed for two fucking weeks. He couldn’t stand anyone that wasn’t pack touching him because those sick fucks had beaten all the trust right out of him. He couldn’t stand water on his skin because they’d repeatedly drowned him till he was nearly dead. And his eyes were gold because somewhere deep inside him, his wolf was still afraid to trust that he was safe. Jackson swallowed heavily, heart in his throat. He went and sat beside Scott, offering silent comfort. Platitudes were worthless. There was nothing he could say that would fix this.   
  
Scott dropped his head onto Jackson’s shoulder. Jackson reached up and ran his fingers through Scott’s hair, wincing every time he hit a tangle. Scott only sighed, not seeming to notice.   
  
Sunlight was washing over them from a rip in the curtain when they finally stirred. “Come on,” Jackson said, rising, lending a hand to pull Scott to his feet. “I think I smell pancakes. Maybe you could help Stiles out..?” he suggested, trying not to sound too hopeful.   
  
Scott shook his head a little, bending to retrieve his pile of clothes from the floor. He pulled them on quickly. He wouldn’t look Jackson in the eye. “Not right now. I’m gonna go out into the woods for a bit, clear my head.”  
  
“Sure,” Jackson said softly, and watched as Scott padded off on silent feet, ghostlike as he moved through the house. The front door opened and closed with a quiet ‘click.’ Jackson let out a long, frustrated breath and let his head thump against the wall. It didn’t help.   
  
Stiles was standing at the stove when he got to the kitchen, staring sightlessly at the skillet. There was smoke coming from it.   
  
“Um, Stiles,” Jackson ventured. “Is that supposed to be on fire?”  
  
“What? Oh, shit!” Stiles yelped, flinging the pan into the sink. The resulting splash soaked Stiles’ bathrobe. It said a lot about his mood that he only gave a tired sigh in response. He rubbed at his eyes and flung himself down at the table, head in his hands.   
  
“You okay?” Jackson asked tentatively. He did pretty much everything tentatively these days. He was getting used to it.   
  
Stiles looked up at him, bleary eyed. The bags under his eyes had bags of their own. “No. Not really.”  
  
Jackson snorted. “Tell me about it.”  
  
“He out in the woods?”  
  
Jackson nodded, pressing a hand to his temple to ward off the headache he theoretically shouldn’t have. Scott would be out there communing with nature and letting his wolf have free rein. It was hard to begrudge him that, when he’d spent so long trapped in a tiny room with no daylight, but each time he went out there he came back a little less human, and it was starting to worry Jackson more and more.   
  
“We’re going to have to do something about that, you know,” Stiles said. “It’s not good for him.”  
  
Jackson snorted, and rose to put on a pot of coffee. “And what do you propose we do, genius? Lock him in the house? I imagine that would go down well.”  
  
“No, but -” Stiles grunted, frustrated. “Fuck! I don’t know what the hell to do about it, but I don’t like it, okay?”  
  
Jackson only shrugged. He didn’t want to admit his relief that it wasn’t just him; that someone else was scared too.   
  
Derek wandered in just as Jackson took the pot of coffee off the percolator, shoving his empty mug under Jackson’s nose expectantly. He looked as tired as Jackson felt. Jackson took pity on him, pouring him the first cup.   
  
Derek took a long gulp of scalding hot coffee and sighed as he slumped into a chair. Jackson was beginning to sense a theme here.   
  
“Any luck getting him to agree to the control techniques you mentioned?” Stiles asked Derek, stupidly hopeful.   
  
Derek shook his head mutely, frowning down into his coffee. Jackson leaned over and squirted some maple syrup into his mug. Derek grunted his appreciation. He took a sip before answering. “Not a chance. He’s using the wolf as a crutch right now. Re-learning how to suppress it is the last thing he wants.”  
  
Stiles let out a frustrated noise. “But it’s his damn wolf that’s making things like ten times harder than they need to be!”  
  
Derek shrugged. “His wolf is the only reason he got out of that place alive. It protected him; kept him sane. Can’t really blame him for wanting to hide behind it now.”  
  
Put like that, it sounded reasonable enough. It didn’t make Jackson resent Scott’s wolf any less. Sometimes, after he’d been out in the forest for a while, Scott would come home and it was like he wasn’t even in there. Like an animal was watching him with his mate’s eyes. Sometimes there’d be great stretches of time where he wasn’t lucid at all. It felt like the wolf was stealing his mate away from him, bit by bit. There wasn’t a minute of the day he wasn’t worried that if they carried on like this, someday there’d be nothing left of him.   
  
The silence stretched out between them, oppressive and heavy. Stiles eventually broached it with an explosive sigh, looking between the two of them imploringly. “Can we maybe talk about the elephant in the room at some point? It’s getting closer and closer, and I get that no-one wants to face up to it, but -”  
  
“What?” Derek asked, impatient.   
  
“I was getting there,” Stiles said, offended. He looked at them both expectantly, like they should already know. “You know? School, the fact that it starts up again in two weeks and Scott’s still feral as some scratchy, bitey barn cat?”  
  
As if Jackson needed reminding. “What do you suggest we do about it? We can’t even take him out in public while his eyes are still like that.”  
  
“…contacts? Brown contact lenses? Maybe he’d pass?”  
  
“Until some poor bastard bumps into him in the halls and he wolfs out on them,” Jackson reminded him. “Then there’s the whole ‘not showering’ thing. How do we get around that one, genius?”  
  
“About that…” Stiles looked guilty. Like he knew what he was about to say was a terrible idea, but he was going to say it anyway. “I’ve been reading up on a technique we might be able to use with the water phobia. It’s called ‘flooding.’”  
  
“And?” Jackson prodded, motioning for Stiles to go on.   
  
“Well, it’s a form of behavioural conditioning, and basically the gist of it is exposure to the thing that scares him in a controlled environment. In other words, we just kind of drag him into the shower and keep him there until he sees that it’s okay; that nothing’s going to happen to him. Supposedly the effects are pretty quick.”  
  
Jackson looked at Stiles in disgust, and not a little horror. “That’s a fucking horrible idea. Where the hell did you get that from anyway?”  
  
Stiles ducked his head. “…Cesar Milan,” he mumbled.  
  
“What the fuck, Stiles? He’s not a god damned dog!”  
  
“No, he’s not a fucking dog, but there’s pieces of hunter still stuck in his hair, and if we leave this any longer we’re going to wind up having to shave his head.”  
  
Jackson swallowed. He knew Scott’s hair was dirty and tangled, but he didn’t like being reminded of the reason for it. They’d dabbed the worst of the gore off him back at the compound that night, but he hadn’t bathed since he came home. Jackson had lived with the smell so long that he’d completely tuned it out, but Stiles was right; they couldn’t just keep ignoring it. It didn’t make Stiles’ idea sound any less awful.   
  
“He’s not dealing, Jackson,” Stiles said quietly. “What do _you_ think we should do?”  
  
Jackson scoffed. Hell, it wasn’t feasible, but why not just say what they’d all been thinking? What he _wished_ , with everything in him, that they could do. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe take him to a god damned professional counsellor?”   
  
“Hmm,” Stiles said mockingly, rubbing his chin. “‘I was tied to a chain and tortured by werewolf hunters.’ Yeah, that sounds like a one way ticket to a nice little padded room. You might think my idea’s dumb, but at least it won’t get him committed.” His voice wavered at the end, and his eyes were suspiciously glassy. “If we could just get him cleaned up, let him see that nothing’s gonna hurt him here…”  
  
Something in Jackson softened. Stiles was just clinging to this one thing; like getting Scott to overcome his phobia would somehow make everything alright. If only it was that easy. “It won’t fix him, Stiles,” he said gently. He didn’t voice his unspoken fear; that maybe there _was_ no fixing him.   
  
“It would be _something_ ,” Stiles insisted, his voice outright cracking. He let out a breath, eyes going unfocused. He let out a sudden laugh, unsteady and sad. “When we were seven I popped my gum in his hair. He had to get this weird undercut to shave it out and he cried and he wouldn’t speak to me for a week.”  
  
“Stiles, I doubt he gives much of a shit about his hair right now,” Derek  interjected. Jackson had forgotten he was sitting there.   
  
“Maybe not, no,” Stiles agreed, tipping his chin as something resolved and steely entered his eyes, “but the issue of school remains.”  
  
Derek scowled. “Fuck school. Let him heal in his own time.”  
  
Stiles scoffed at Derek, scowling right back. “Aside from the fact that his mom would probably get in deep shit for keeping him off school for some undisclosed reason for God only knows how long, do you have any idea how crappy he’d feel about being kept back a year?”  
  
Shit. That hadn’t really occurred to Jackson, and something sank in him at the thought. He interrupted before Derek could counter. “He’s right.” He knew Scott was sensitive about people thinking he was stupid, and being held back a year wouldn’t do much for that inferiority complex. He looked to Stiles, searching. “Do you really think this will help? This flooding shit?”  
  
“Yes, I really do,” Stiles said. “I think it has a really good chance of helping with the water phobia, in any case. If it works, maybe we can apply the same theory elsewhere.”  
  
“If it doesn’t?” Derek asked sceptically, brow raised.  
  
Stiles winced. “Then we’ve put him through something extremely traumatic for nothing and I’ll feel like a fucking asshole, alright? But we have to try something, Derek! We can’t just keep pretending like everything’s fine. Everything is not fucking fine!”  
  
Derek shook his head, resigned. He drained his coffee and stood, pushing his chair back. “I won’t stop you, but for the record, I think this is a horrible idea and I want no part of it.”  
  
Jackson and Stiles looked at each other as Derek slammed the door behind him, silently wondering if they’d even be physically capable of forcing Scott to do much of anything without Derek’s help.  Thin as he was, he’d still managed to slaughter about half a dozen hunters back at that compound, and Jackson didn’t exactly relish the thought of wrestling with him in full fight or flight mode.   
  
It was well into the afternoon when Scott’s stomach led him back to the house. Stiles had made him lunch to lull him into a false sense of security. (‘Also because he still looks like a strong gust of wind might knock him down, but whatever.’) Scott was still wolfish when he’d finished his club sandwich, but his belly was full, and he was drowsy. Stiles and Jackson looked at each other for confirmation, and took their opportunity.   
  
Jackson grabbed Scott under the arms and Stiles grabbed his legs, and together they pulled him off his chair and began carrying him down the hall.   
  
“What are you doing?” Scott asked mildly, barely even testing their hold on him. He trusted them. He could barely even stand to be near his own mother right now, but he trusted them. Guilt washed over Jackson in a seasick wave.   
  
Stiles tightened his hold, swallowing nervously as he began climbing the stairs, stumbling a little because he was going backwards. “It’s for your own good,” he told Scott. He didn’t sound so sure of himself anymore.   
  
Jackson could tell the exact moment it occurred to Scott where they were taking him, and why they felt they had to carry him there. “Guys, you’re not -”  
  
Jackson looked away at the utter disbelief on Scott’s face, and the dawning panic. This was hard enough as it was.  
  
“This is for the best, you’ll see,” Stiles said, like he was trying to reassure himself as much as Scott. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.” Then he kicked open the bathroom door, Scott caught sight of the bathtub, and all hell broke loose.   
  
Suddenly Scott was a whirling dervish in their arms, kicking and clawing at anything he could reach, out of his mind with panic. Jackson cursed as Scott’s claws dug into his hands, trying desperately to pry them loose. He looked between Stiles and the bathtub, wondering just how in the hell they were actually supposed to get him in there and keep him in long enough to wash him down. “Now what?”  
  
“Would you believe I hadn’t actually thought that far ahead?” Stiles said, apologetic, and ducked a flailing foot aimed at his head.   
  
“I’m going to fucking kill you when this is over and done with,” Jackson grit out. “Let go,” he told Stiles, then took a deep breath and hoisted he and Scott both into the bathtub, pulling Scott down to lie on top of him, hooking arms and legs tight against Scott to keep him down. Scott roared.   
  
Jackson looked up at Stiles’ startled face. “Put the fucking water on, you idiot! And if you fucking drown me I’ll kill you!”  
  
Stiles winced as Scott let out an ear-splitting howl. “Not the ‘D’ word man!”  
  
Jackson doubted Scott was coherent enough to understand a damn thing they were saying right now, but when the water came on, pouring over them both in a light, tepid shower, he couldn’t help murmuring softly into Scott’s ear, trying to reassure him.   
  
Scott howled like the water burned, struggling so hard against Jackson’s hold it was like he thought he’d die if he couldn’t get free. “Shh,” Jackson whispered against the shell of his ear, hoping something in him would recognise his voice. “You’re fine, baby, it’s just water. It’s just us, we’d never hurt you. It’s okay…”  
  
Stiles leaned over them to rub shampoo into Scott’s hair. Scott flinched like it was acid. When Jackson turned enough to see his eyes, they were wild and terrified and focused inward, seeing something else entirely. Jackson turned back and watched the tears streaking down Stiles’ cheeks as he bent to his task. Jesus, he hoped this was worth it.  
  
Endless minutes passed, and Scott’s heart was thudding in his ribcage like it was trying to beat its way free; his breath coming in shallow gasps, like he couldn’t get enough air. “How much longer?” Jackson grit out, terrified that they might just fucking kill him with this stupid stunt.   
  
Stiles took a shuddering breath, wiping at his reddened eyes with his sleeve. “We’re supposed to wait until he calms down.”  
  
Jackson looked at Stiles in disbelief. “Does he look like he’s about to fucking calm down to you?”  
  
“The fear response is supposed to have some kind of time limit, okay? His adrenaline is supposed to crash, and he’s supposed to calm down, and realise there’s nothing to be afraid of…”  
  
“You read this off wikipedia, didn’t you?” Jackson said accusingly. Scott had pretty much stopped struggling now, but only because he’d also more or less stopped breathing, too.   
  
“Not just wikipedia!” Stiles insisted, and Jackson could see the panic start to set in.   
  
Suddenly Scott became a dead weight in Jackson’s arms, and he gave a long, tremulous sigh. His heart began to slow, little by little. Jackson struggled into a sitting position, turning so he could see Scott’s face. He seemed almost calm now; eyes lowered, lashes fluttering wetly over his cheeks, but oddly deadened. Numb.   
  
“Scott?” he questioned softly, letting his grip loosen.   
  
Scott pulled away, silent, and pulled himself up to stand on legs that shook like a newborn colt’s, clumsily climbing out of the tub, still fully clothed and sopping wet. He left a trail of water behind him as he made his way out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him quietly.   
  
Jackson stared emptily at the closed door, too shattered and heartsick to raise a word of protest. He sucked in a deep breath, pulling himself together. He couldn’t afford to fall apart now; not after what they’d just done. The hard part was still to come.   
  
He grabbed a towel and followed the puddles of water back to their room. He knocked the door lightly. No answer. “Scott? I’m coming in.”  
  
He found Scott huddled up in the far corner, head down and knees pressed tightly to his chest. He was visibly shaking - whether with cold or reaction Jackson couldn’t tell. Maybe both. Jackson hesitated for a moment before kneeling down before him, tentatively pushing his towel forward. “Can I..?”  
  
Scott nodded almost imperceptibly, still not looking at him, and Jackson let out a shaky breath and began to rub the towel through Scott’s wet hair. “You need a hairbrush,” he said, trying for levity, knowing he sounded devastated instead. What the fuck right had he to feel that way? After what he’d done? “I’m sorry. Maybe I should just go…”  
  
He moved to rise, but Scott raised his head with a quiet, “Jackson…” and he found himself pulling his mate into a tight, bone crushing hug instead, beyond relieved when Scott tucked his face against Jackson’s shoulder and gave a hitching, broken sigh. He wouldn’t stop shaking.   
  
Jackson stroked his fingers through Scott’s hair, pressing a thousand tiny kisses on his temple as he whispered reassurances against his skin. “You’re safe. You’re safe, I swear it. I’ll never let anything hurt you. I’m so sorry, baby…”  
  
It shocked him when those hitching breaths turned to sobs, and tears began to splash against his skin. He held on tight as Scott quietly cried out all his hurt and pain and suffering. A broken stream of words followed; painful words of all the things he’d tried to bottle up and push away. Things that he’d really, really needed to tell someone.  
  
When the words ran out, they lay together quietly, limbs tangled, still dripping carelessly all over the floor. When Scott raised his head and looked at him, his eyes were red-rimmed and sad, but they were brown, and Jackson had never felt so relieved in his life. “Your eyes have changed back,” he said, voice hushed with reverence, unable to keep the immense relief he felt out of it.  
  
“They have?” Scott murmured, blinking back to alertness.   
  
Jackson pulled him to his feet and brought him to stand in front of the dresser mirror to see. Scott’s hand reached up instinctively as he looked into his own brown eyes, as if to check it wasn’t some trick of the light. His eyes drifted down, taking in his own thin frame. He probably hadn’t looked at himself in the mirror since he’d got back.   
  
Jackson wrapped his arms around him, darting in to kiss him on the temple. “We’ll get you fed up again in no time.”  
  
“And everything else?”   
  
“Will come in time.”   
  
Scott chewed that over for a minute, then sighed. “I guess it would come a lot quicker if I practiced those control exercises Derek wanted to show me.”  
  
“You think you’re ready to let go of your wolf like that?” Jackson asked, trying not to sound too hopeful, not wanting to push. Even if he secretly thought the wolf was exacerbating all Scott’s problems tenfold.  
  
“No, not really, but I think maybe I need to.”   
  
“You’re the bravest little fucker I’ve ever met, you know that?”   
  
Scott snorted. “You suck so hard at compliments. Remind me why I keep you around?”  
  
Jackson laughed, feeling almost giddy now that there might be an end in sight for the constant worry his life had become. He batted his eyes and said in a singsong voice, “Because you love me!”  
  
Scott only smiled at him, like he was humouring some demented child. His eyes were soft with something that made Jackson breathless. “Yeah. I really do.”  
  
Jackson gaped at him, wide eyed.   
  
“You don’t have to say it back,” Scott hurried to say, and he meant that. Like he’d just needed to say it. Like there was any doubt Jackson felt the same way.  
  
Jackson shut him up with a kiss and pulled him down onto the bed to lie side by side. “I love you too, you dumbass.”   
  
Scott smiled at him again, slow and sweet, eyes soft. Jackson wondered if the hurt in them would ever fade. Something twisted in him, wishing he’d said those words sooner. Thankful he had the chance to say them at all.  
  
If someone had told him a year ago that he’d be lying on a bed with Scott McCall, twining their fingers together and staring sappily into his brown, puppy dog eyes, he’d probably have laughed in their face and called them a raving lunatic. At the moment, he just felt sort of…content. Like he had everything he needed right here, and God help the person that tried to take that away from him.   
  
There was a world of things still to worry about, lurking at the back of his mind like a scab waiting to be picked, but for now, it could wait. He had his mate back at his side, and the insidious fear that the wolf would steal everything that he loved about Scott away from him had faded. Hope rose up in him, light and buoyant. They’d get through this.  
  
They still had a long, hard road ahead of them; Jackson was under no illusions about that. It might take a lifetime to heal the kind of wounds his mate had suffered, but Jackson could wait. They had their whole lives ahead of them.  
  
Eventually they stripped off their wet clothes, curling close together under the covers for warmth. Scott tucked his head under Jackson’s chin and gave a tired little sigh. After a while, he drifted off into peaceful sleep. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t dream.


End file.
